The Fall of Dynasties
by Sera dy Relandrant
Summary: 469 HE A look at the political situation of the Kyprish Isles, 5 years after Trickster's Queen. Different view points in the Yamani Isles, Tortall, Carthak and the newly renamed Kyprish Isles.
1. Queen Dovasary

**Summary: 469 H.E. A look at the political situation of the Kyprish Isles, 5 years after Trickster's Queen, told from different view points in the Yamani Isles, Tortall, Carthak and the newly-renamed Kyprish Isles. Dove just isn't proving to be the queen she was prophesied to be. **

_"You're going to have to trust my judgment at some time," Dove pointed out to him. "I think that now would be a good time. I won't be a puppet, Ulasim. If I rule, I _rule._"_

_**Pg 365, Trickster's Queen**_

**-----------**

**469 H.E.**

**The Imperial Palace of the Yamani Isles**

**The 12th day of the Cherryblossom Season**

The first fierce storm of the year had raked the western coast the previous night. Hundreds of fishermen and their boats had yet to return home. In the tiny hamlets that dotted the coast, incense sticks were being lit to the Lady Yama, Patron Goddess of the Isles. Prayers floated on the bitter salt breeze as women kept vigil, by the sea, in the temples, prayers for their menfolk's safety. His Imperial Majesty had sent a special relief force in the wee hours of dawn.

In the Palace, no evidence to signify that such a calamity had occurred could be found. Moon-faced court ladies in their iris-patterned kimonos floated gracefully down the corridors, along the gardens and outdoor pavilions, admiring the cherry blossoms. Noblemen honed their battle skills with glaive and doubled-edged sword on the practice courts and in between bouts sipped green tea, plotted and composed poetry just as on any regular day. Why indeed should they care to disrupt their routine, over the woes of some peasants? Let those whose fiefs skirted the sea fret over the cheap lives of the fishermen.

Looking at the sundial in the ornamental garden, Master Daitokuji's thoughts revolved not around storms or cherryblossoms. They centred on his pupil, His Imperial Highness, the Lord of the Four Winds. The Crown Prince was most inaristocratically late for his morning's lesson today. Master Daitokuji frowned. Lads of fifteen, he knew, were terminally incapable of understanding anything but their own foolish whims. They needed a touch of the whip, more oft than not, to teach them what was what. His Imperial Majesty however had proved to be a father more doting than wise and Prince Reninkoji's well-deserved lashes were always awarded to his personal whipping boy.

The painted paper door rolled aside and Reninkoji, his two bodyguards just behind him, slid in. The boy was slightly breathless as he bowed low to his teacher. In answer to Master Daitokuji's delicately-raised eyebrows - the only sign that the old man was displeased - he said, "I crave forgiveness for my transgressions, noble sir. My Lord Father, His Imperial Majesty, detained me."

"Sit," Daitokuji said curtly. "What pearls of advice did His Majesty condescend to impart to his heir?" He knew the boy wouldn't lie to his face, but all the same the thought crossed his mind that perhaps it hadn't been the Emperor who'd detained Reninkoji for so long but pretty Lady Azunomiyu, the newest addition to the Empress's hand-picked ladies-in-waiting.

"The news has just come that Queen Shinkokami has risen from childbed and presented her lord with a daughter," Reninkoji said. "She is to be named Liankokami Akashdvipa."

"Liankokami - child of the cherry moon," Daitokuji murmured, looking pleased. "An auspicious name for a maiden. Akashdvipa is a name of Saren origin - the Queen Dowager must have had a say in that. Well, a daughter is no curse - she shall bear her lord sons soon enough."

"Even if she does," Reninkoji said, looking smug that he knew something his tutor didn't. "And she might not, she's been in delicate health and the healers have advised her against having another child, the firstborn shall be Queen. So read the letter."

Again, Daitokuji's eyebrows arched delicately as he pondered this piece of information. "The Kyprish tradition of the firstborn inheriting has become fashionable, I see. Well - what do you make of it?"

"Sir?" Reninkoji said, looking startled. His tutor had never asked for his advice on anything. He'd always made it more than clear that he considered Reninkoji a disappointment and woe the day he ascended the throne.

Daitokuji smiled thinly. "Your Highness must not forget that you shall be Emperor one day and that your opinions will be sought after and valued by many. Your present audience is but your cudgly old tutor, but I think it's time you begin expressing you views. Even if they are of remarkably poor quality."

Reninkoji accepted the insult with a smile. "Why not?" he asked. "I approve of the Kyprish tradition-"

"Do not use words as strong as 'approve'," Daitokuji intoned in a sing-song voice. "It will not do at all."

Reninkoji ignored this. "I _approve_. Why may not a maiden aspire to all that a man may? Liankokami is a child of warriors and mayhap, she will prove a more fitting sovereign to Tortall than any brothers she might have."

"A charming notion, theoretically," Daitokuji said. "The Kyprish Isles have a queen now. Fetch that map. There - let us now proceed to discuss the scenario in Queen Dovasary's realm."

**000**

**The Royal Palace of Tortall, Corus**

**Princess Liankokami's Nursery**

Roald II, King of Tortall, bent over his week-old daughter's cradle and smiled. It was a beautiful cradle, made of the scented teak found exclusively on Gempang Isle and carved with figures of animals. It had been sent as a gift from the newly-renamed Kyprish Isles, along with a letter from the young queen hoping that His Majesty would consider the terms of the new military alliance the Isles were eager to enter into with Tortall.

Roald ran his fingers through his hair which had already started silvering. He couldn't even look at his daughter without being reminded of how much he had to do. Now more than ever he began to admire just how much his father had accomplished - and wonder whether he'd ever be able to match up to the man who was now being called Tortall's greatest king.

He heard the rustle of silk on stone and turned around. Shinko, her hair loose, her cherry-blossom-patterned silk robe loose, put her arms around him. "I wonder how they'll respond when they get the news about Lia," she muttered, burying her face against the soft fabric of his tunic. "Little Renin might be pleased - he always liked new things - and I suppose it's his opinion that'll count most in the future."

"Your little Renin is not quite so little now," Roald reminded her. "You last saw him when he was six - he's fifteen now."

"Oh he was born in the water year of the Pig," Shinko said calmly. "The almanac says they're always open to new ideas."

Roald opened his mouth to tell her that it didn't matter what year a person was born in, it seldom had an impact on their personality, but then shut his mouth abruptly. He'd told her that many times but somehow, it never seemed to enter her head. Oh she'd listen of course, calmly, seriously, as though she was actually considering what he was saying, but in the end she always clung to her old beliefs, never accepting his. Her beliefs and customs were all she had been able to bring from the Isles and perhaps that was why she hung so fiercely to them - they were all she had left of her old life. Or perhaps it was just aYamani thing_. _

"Lady Alanna arrived this afternoon - she's staying at House Olau now. Lianne rode down there and your mother's all a flutter, seeing that she hasn't returned yet," Shinko said.

"Playing the good daughter-in-law even before the nuptials - pity it'll take Alan a few days before he reaches Corus," Roald chuckled. "Did your augurers finally find an auspicious date for the wedding?" There was an ironic twist to his mouth as he said it. Shinko's insistence that everything about Lianne and Alan's wedding be according to the augurers' words - from the wedding day to the color of the ribbons in Lianne's bridal bouquet - had all but driven him crazy. He wondered how Alanna, famously short-tempered, would take it when Shinko started instructing her on how high her heels should be and how many pearls she should wear.

"You know I want the best for them," Shinko said. "I won't get to marry off any other sister-in-laws."

_Good thing. _

"And Liam with his affection for men-"

"Please don't say it," Roald pleaded. He was just not as open to discussing his brother's sexual orientation as his wife was. 'Queerness', as people delicately put it, was frowned upon in Tortall and Roald heartily concurred with the common opinion held in the Eastern Lands that it was a disgrace. He sighed, pondering why Lady Alanna had arrived so early - the wedding wasn't for over a month. "She's come to me about the situation in the Copper- sorry, Kyprish Isles," he said aloud.

"What situation?" Shinko asked absently, running her fingers over his back.

Rapidly, he informed her of the latest developments in the politica scenario, finally ending with Queen Dovasary's personal letter. "You know Lady Alanna has a... sentimental attachment to the Isles because of-"

"Lady Alianne," Shinko said, nodding. "There is no place for sentiment in politics," she said shrewdly, turning Roald around to face her. He looked down into her face, illuminated by moonlight, and saw the concern in her eyes. "Do not let your heart overrule your head, my love."

"I never do," he said, stroking her cheek. "Lady Alanna-"

"Lady Alanna will have to be satisfied with her sovereign's decision," Shinko said, a note of steel in her sweet voice. "What will you write to Queen Dovasary?"

"I will thank her for her pains and courtesies," Roald said, smiling. "Tortall shall always be on amicable terms with the Isles - but at the moment Tortall cannot be drawn into any military settlement with the Isles. Not under the present situation. We look forward, however, to a day when Her Majesty will be able to convince us that she has the Isles firmly under her control. Till then, we shall remain on the best of terms as _neighbours_ - not allies, not enemies."

Shinko stood up on tip-toe and kissed his cheek. "Very good, my dear," she murmured. "Very good."

**000**

_"No female can hold the Saren throne." Her voice was soft. "The Book of Glass forbids it. Children hear tales of other lands, less wise than ours, who came to grief because they let a woman rule."_

_**-Lioness Rampant, Page 168**_

**The Grey Palace, Rajmuat**

"You dance divinely, Your Highness." Lord Henrique Jeysamarung bent down and whispered into Princess Petranne's ear.

The eleven-year-old princess giggled and slapped the fifteen-year-old nobleman with her fan. "My lord," she teased, "Your fair admirers will be heartbroken!" Her gaze lingered on the cluster of young ladies who were following them with their eyes as they went through the steps of the latest court dance. When they saw the princess looking at them, the other girls quickly turned away, blushing.

Henrique spared a cursory glance for the aggrieved damsels. "Fair? How might I deign to call them fair when you, My Lady Princess, shine in their midst like a diamond in a coal-miner's hand, a dove among crows-"

"I like crows," Petra protested. Then, gravely, "You mustn't flirt with me so - Mamma will be furious. She still doesn't like me attending balls so young - if she thinks that we're philandering, she won't let me alone with you for a minute even though Dove thinks it's a good idea for me to start accustoming myself to public life early."

"Big words for a small lady," Henrique chuckled. He had a warm, throaty chuckle and Petra felt herself blushing as she always did when he chuckled. It was puzzling - she never blushed when he smiled at her (certainly not like red-haired Lady Amaraya who looked like she'd caught fire when Henrique smiled) or when he flirted so outrageously or even when he burst out in full-throated laughter... it was his chuckle. Love was quite irrational, eleven-year-old Petra decided. Well at least she'd chosen someone suitable to fall in love with.

Henrique was a second or third cousin, descended distantly, just as she was, from the Rittevon line. When little Dunevon was king, Elsren had been Dunevon's heir and Henrique Elsren's. Sometimes Petra pondered the irony of the fact that the first three men in lien to the throne at that time had all been under ten. Duchess Arbella, Henrique's mother, always declared that it was a good thing that those in her bloodline were now spared the danger of being in line for a crown they didn't want. The duchess had lost her husband and three eldest sons during King Oron's reign.

"Small?" Petra cried indignantly. "I'm going to be as tall as Mamma one day and _then _you'll have to watch out."

"I'll grow," Henrique said, unfazed. "I'll be a human giant and I'll tread on you one day and then mourn the death of the love of my life as a naked ascetic wandering the Grimhold Mountains."

"You'll die if you wander the Grimhold Mountains naked," Petra reminded him. "It's cold."

"Not as cold as your heart, my rosebud," Henrique retorted.

"Tosh," Petra said. "You don't care about my cold heart at all - Acharn said you were sweet on Lady Amaraya."

"I'll have Acharn horsewhipped," Henrique said serenely. "Lady Amaraya is all very well - I like 'em redheaded. Fiesty, you know. Firecrotch. Very-"

"Please," Petra yelped. "I'm only eleven - you don't need to tell me how fiery she is!"

"Stop squaking," Henrique said, "Your mother's looking at us now."

And indeed, Duchess Winnamine was. "I think it's time you go up now," she told her daughter sweetly. "You've danced more than your fair share tonight - I don't want your head filled with any more frivolous nonsense that life's just balls and silk slippers and dancing among the roses." Petranne pouted but she let her mother escort her to her chambers. Behind Winnamine's back she blew Henrique a kiss.

Lord Uniunu twirled a wine-glass and looked at the new Duke Nomru. Raziel had recently inherited his father's duchy after Vurquan Nomru had passed away, the winter before. "They seem remarkably well-suited to one another," Uniunu said slyly. "Our little princess will grow up into a beauty - there isn't a trace of those trashy Fonfalas in her face."

"A snow princess," Raziel commented softly. "She was dark-haired as a child but now her hair's turned quite blond. I grew up with Imajane. The similarities in their appearances are remarkable."

"One might take that as a sign," Uniunu commented. "She's a very luarin princess, no matter what raka ideas they try to feed into her."

"Outwardly," Raziel said carefully. "Outwardly."

"Who knows?" Uniunu sighed, taking a sip of wine. "Henrique's a dashing boy - so full of life and promise - don't you think? An outstanding swordsman - you'd hardly be able to make out that he's only fifteen when he fences."

"They'll both be ornaments to Queen Dovasary's court when they're older," Raziel said coolly.

Uniunu chuckled softly. "Old friend, do you really think she'll have a court left to call her own, the way she's running things now? All this pomp, all this pageantry at court - it's to appease us nobles, to make us think that she has everything under control. That's what comes of letting a woman rule."

Raziel stroked his chin thoughtfully. He shot a wary glance at the tall, handsome young Lord Jeysamarung and said guardedly, "Perhaps."

Far away, in a tucked-away little turret of the Grey Palace, Aly's hands clenched and unclenched. Her official workroom and 'front office' was once the study cum library that had been Prince Rubinyan's, but over the years she'd come to prefer the turret that overlooked the stone gardens. It was a charming, deviously-hidden cranny, a secret room in the secret suite that King Oron had spent his last days in. Few - not even the queen herself - knew of it's existence.

The listening spells had picked up the conversation between two of the greatest peers of the realm - Lord Uniunu and Duke Nomru. Aly rested her elbows on the cold stone ledge of the window and thought hard. Should she inform Dove? _No, it's not serious enough for that, _she decided, _court games, no matter how earnest Uniunu seemed. Nomru is far too sensible to be involved, particularly when there's a slithering serpent like Uniunu baiting him. _Dove might take a rash decision. She'd been particularly high-strung after the events on Gempang Island the previous winter - the assassination attempt on the queen that had ended in Duke Vurquan Nomru's death when he tried to shield her, the rebellions that had sprung up like little wildfires, led not by aggrieved luarin nobles but by the raka, astonishingly enough.

Dove... Dove just hadn't measured up to be the queen that everyone had expected her to be. Perhaps it was too much to ask of a nineteen-year-old who'd taken up the mantle of a blood-soaked dynasty at the age of fourteen, never actually trained to rule. But people _would _ask for it. They wouldn't care that Dove was doing the best she could - which was perhaps the best anyone in her position could do. They would want more. And when they didn't get more...

Well. That was a question best left unanswered.

Aly closed her eyes and rested her head on her folded arms. _Life used to be simpler. _

**000**

_Roger's smile was bitter. "I believe in them. Only a fool does not. Since they have made it very clear they do not like me, I refuse to worship them." He stared into the distance, his eyes glittering. "But they can be defeated, Jonathan. The right man can shake them from their thrones." _

_**-Lioness Rampant, Page 228**_

**The Imperial Palace of Carthak **

"Lord Sibigat!"

The voice was imperious, commanding and when Taybur Sibigat turned, he half-expected to see some fat, match-making Carthaki matron intent on enunciating the virtues of her peerless daughter to him. He was pleasantly surprised to see Lady Saraiyu Hetnim striding towards him.

"My Lady is as fair as when I last saw her," he murmured, the graceful words of a courtier rising to his lips. Pretty Lady Sarai was a charming distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. He had no time for the languorous court dances that a cultured man was expected to perform with a lady of breeding. "If Your Ladyship will excuse me..."

Sarai caught his arm and looked straight up - and up and up and up - into his eyes. "Walk with me," she said - nay ordered him. When he hesitated, she said softly, "Please." There was pleading in her eyes and he realized that she meant to engage him in a conversation that would revolve around more than trite parlor talk.

"I am at the service of Her Majesty and Her Majesty's family," he said smoothly, letting her lead him.

She pursed up her lips and said half-absently, "I believe you haven't had the opportunity to visit the Empress's hanging gardens? They are best admired by night - Her Majesty delights not in the hue, but of the fragrance, of flowers. Not many people frequent them at this time - but then beauty _is _often considered a solitary pleasure." Taybur had never heard that, but he knew what she was angling for. _A private tete-a-tete. How fortunate for me that Lord Hetnim is not the jealous type. _

Empress Kalasin's hanging gardens were beautiful. Terracotta and sandstone and rainbow-veined marble polished to mirror-brightness by imperial slaves glittered in the afternoon rays of the scorching Carthaki sun. The fragile, bell-shaped white flowers, famed for their scent, that the Empress had imported from Galla had withered in the heat, true, but there was much to admire. Macaws and parrots and the hundred-and-eight white-and-gold doves that were sacred to some Carthaki god or the other cavorted. Miniature waterfalls descended, white and frothy, into crystal-green little pools where tiny, brightly-hued fish swam.

"Her Majesty has an eye for detail," Taybur said approvingly. "My apologies for a statement so trite - such a fact must not be unknown to you, as her chief lady-in-waiting."

Sarai chose a cool, canopied cranny by a waterfall and settled down. She snapped out her fan, a dainty, lacy black affair decorated with pink pearls, and beckoned him to sit down. "Tell me everything," she said gravely. She really was an adorably pretty little thing, Taybur decided. Like a child. She wanted to know everything, just like a little girl, without realizing the implications of her demand. _You beautiful fool. _

"His Majesty, Emperor Kaddar, has lent an attentive ear to my queen's request for soldiers to be sent to the Copper Isles," Taybur said calmly. "Of course we paid a fair price for it - exclusive trading rights in spices, ivory and pearls to Carthak."

Sarai fiddled with her earrings. They were made of ivory and black pearl, shaped like parrots. Clearly, the terms of the recent treaty did not interest her. "Zaimid said something like that," she said disinterestedly. "But that's not what I wanted to know."

He was careful not to let the contempt he felt for her lace his voice as he said, "Then what would My Lady wish to know?"

"_Dove_," Sarai said impatiently. "How is she? Gods above, how did she get into this mess?"

"What mess?" Taybur asked cooly. "We have had an unusually bountiful rice harvest last winter. The treasury is in fine condition. A few raka hotheads and some little local rebellions are the only proverbial clouds on Her Majesty's horizon."

Sarai tapped her little, silk-shod foot restlessly. "They're raka," she said. "That's what I want to know. Why are they raka? Dove was the promised queen - why should they rise against _her_?"

"The assumption inherent in your words is that if anyone should rise, it would be the luarin."

Sarai fanned herself and shrugged. "They would be against having a half-raka queen."

"She was ever more a daughter of the luarin than of the raka," Taybur reminded her. "What raka influences have been predominant in her formative years, after her mother's death?"

"Lokeij!" Sarai said fiercely. "Ulasim! Chenaol!"

"Luarin children of noble blood are exposed to their raka slaves in childhood," Taybur said dismissively. "Apart from weapons-training, which is the vogue among nobly-bred daughters in Tortall now, you and she were both raised as proper luarin noblewomen. You think of yourself as raka, you sympathize with the plight of your mother's people but tell me, My Lady, have you ever felt the sting of a whip? Felt the touch of a luarin slavemaster, taking you as you lay, naked before your family, in the mud?"

Sarai drew back, looking sickened.

"My apologies for hurting your delicate sentiments, Lady Saraiyu," Taybur said bitterly. "Such truths are far too coarse for the ears of ladies." He stood up restlessly and began to pace. "If she was pure luarin, the raka would expect nothing of her. How could a distant queen in Rajmuat, her blood the conqueror's blood, affect them? But they think of her as a part of themselves, and that is where the problem lies. Have you ever been to Malubesang, My Lady?"

Sarai shook her head.

"No? Gempang? No?" He smiled kindly down at her. "The term 'wild jungle raka' has always been a term of insult to her countrymen, to you. Have you ever cared to look into the truth of the phrase?"

"Raka are not dogs," Sarai said sharply. "'Wild jungle raka' indeed! Why when I look at the luarin-"

"As it happens we are _not _looking at the luarin," Taybur said dismissively. "The raka have been crushed under their conquerors' feet for too long - three hundred years is no short time. You know how they have been treated - how they have been reduced to the level of beasts. It is not easy to make men out of beasts again, Lady Saraiyu. It is not the work of a single generation, let alone five years."

"I suppose not," Sarai said reluctantly, the logic of the matter penetrating her.

"Queen Dovasary has outlawed slavery in the Isles," Taybur said. "She has provided - to an extent - for her people. Those who have a legal claim to the land have taken it. Good. But what about those who have no claim? To them, she has turned her back."

"Dove-" Sarai began, but Taybur silenced her by raising his hand.

"To _them_ it seems that she has turned her back. What do they know of queens and queenship, of the delicate power balance that she must maintain to preserve her life? They see a half-luarin, a half-Rittevon chit of a girl. She was chosen by their god but what god has Kyprioth been to his people, Lady Saraiyu? What good is a trickster god to the naked, starving millions?"

"He's very charming," Sarai said dryly. "But I suppose, not much else."

"Just as the gods may turn their face from men," Taybur said, "Men may turn their faces from their gods. Queen Dovasary is only the god's chosen, not the people's."

"Not of what I remember in Rajmuat," Sarai said softly.

"Yes, _Rajmuat_," Taybur said irritatedly. "Rajmuat is not the Kyprish Isles. Nor for the matter, is Lombyn. In Lombyn they saw you as Lady Sarugani's daughter, blood of their blood. In Rajmuat, they could see a fairytale in flesh and blood... you fired their imaginations and gave them a cause to fight for. But in the outlying isles, your supporters, the people's chosen, were the ones who rallied the raka to the cause of a new queen. Tell me, My Lady, have you heard a word called 'democracy'?"

Sarai's pretty brow clouded in confusion. "No," she confessed. "Dove was always the bookish one."

Taybur bowed to her. "Then I would suggest you ask Lord Zaimid about it. And oh, when you're about it you might ask him to tell you about a certain man called Ichenon Sonaraiju."

"That's a common raka surname isn't it? Sonaraiju?" Sarai asked.

"A very common one," Taybur said, smiling. "It's hardly a noble one called Temaida, but... well, never mind. Thank you, My Lady, for the pleasant interview, I must be off now." He strode away, leaving Sarai sitting, her head tilted in thought, fanning herself half-absently.

**000**

_"Liam," Alanna whispered, trying not to seem obvious, "The Doi woman with the onyx in the middle of her brow - who is she?" _

_Liam nodded gravely to the Doi. They hid their eyes briefly, a sign the Dragon said meant respect. "A fortune-teller," he answered. "The Doi give them as much honor as you'd give a priest. Each fortune-teller works differently. Some read tea leaves in a cup. Some tell your future from the stars. I had my future done once. It's interesting." _

_She was surprised. "You don't like magic."_

_Liam shook his head. "This isn't magic. No sparkly fire, nothing flying at you, or things changing. A Doi looks at something real."_

_**-Lioness Rampant, Page 141**_

**The Grey Palace, Rajmuat,**

**The Queen's Chambers**

Queen Dovasary Balitang Temaida Haiming was only nineteen, but from her face and bearing this fact was hardly discernible. She was dressed all in black patterned in silver. A chain of old copper coins wove through her hair, through the black coiled and braided locks in which glints of silver shone. She was only nineteen and had begun to grey.

"Your Majesty."

Dove turned and smiled with unusual tenderness at the tall, good-looking raka man who had spoken. Over six feet tall, he was lean, broad-shouldered and with the sharply-cut features that drew women's eyes. He was the Queen's personal bodyguard and - so court rumor of the most scintillating kind had it - more.

"The Lady-who-Sees of the Doi, Sirae un Mikrun has arrived for her personal audience with Your Majesty."

"Yes, send her in," Dove said, glancing sharply at Afaf. "You haven't been getting enough sleep, have you?"

"I could say the same for you, Your Majesty," Afaf said amiably. "With all due respect." He bowed with the grace of a dancing master and left the room. There was a mirror, upheld by nude copper sea-nymphs (a gift that had come along with the marriage proposal from the King of Tusaine), opposite her. Absently she examined her face in it. _I look like a hag, _she thought viciously, wondering why she even cared. As a girl, beauty had never been her concern but with the coming years (or perhaps with the coming of Afaf), well...

The double teak doors inlaid with silver swung open and Dove turned, a royal smile ready on her face. Sirae un Mikrun was a tall woman. Her face was exceedingly pale, almost pure white, like a woman of the far north's, taut skin drawn over high cheekbones and eyes as black and foreboding as the onyx in the middle of her brow. It was a proud face, proud but without arrogance. It was the face of a woman who had looked upon beauty and pain in equal measure and had learnt to accept both. She was the daughter of a clan of thinkers, come of age in a harsh, war-ravaged land.

"Hail, Great Lady," Sirae said when she'd reached the middle of the room. Her voice was clear and resounded through the chamber. She did not bow or curtsy but, as a gesture of respect, averted her eyes for a moment from Dove's face. "May the winds of fair fortune blow forever on you and yours."

Dove, ignoring royal protocol, crossed the room. "You do me honor by harkening to my call. I am grateful for your presence."

Sirae looked steadily down into her eyes. There was a queer smile on her face. "What would the Queen of the Kyprins have with a woman of little note like me? Would she have me chart her destiny for her in the stars? Curry the meaning of the sad lines that stretch over her palm? Since when have the daughters of the Haiming blood turned to the augurers they banished from their court, many years ago?"

"Queen Imiary II banished false prophets of doomsaying from the Kyprish Isles," Dove said. "You dishonor yourself by ranking yourself with them."

"By the gods' blessings my trade is prophesy," Sirae said. "I am but a wandering priestess of our Lady Cherizad, She of the Far-Seeing Eye. We sell our trade in paltry village fairs to the ignorant poor and in the parlors of the great, they make an hour's merriment from our craft. Great Lady, what would you have with me?"

Dove beckoned her to a seat. She sat down in the winged armchair that had once been her father's favorite and looked steadily at Sirae. "You are more than what you seem, Sirae un Mikrun. The Gods have marked you."

"And you know as well as I that that is no blessing, O Child of the Trickster God," Sirae said gracefully. She looked thoughtfully at Dove. "I said 'sad lines' on your palm, Lady Dovasary. There is a curse on all those who bearing Rittevon blood ascend the Kyprish throne - a choice between madness and an untimely death. Lenman Rittevon slew the seven husbands of Princess Sonabai. Her beauty was like a flame - Gods' touched was she, they say she strums her crystal lute for Mithros - and he, unworthy dog of an unworthy race, used her for sport. Seven days he kept her and tortured her seven sons before her eyes till they dropped into the dust, reddened by their blood, blackened by their bile. And then she cursed him, cursed him and all his race before throwing herself from the tower you now know as the Princess's tower."

Dove clasped her hands together. "What do you see for me?"

"Nothing I see will avert what the Weaver of Fate has willed for you," Sirae said calmly. "Why would you have me search through the stars for a meaning? Such games are not for women of your sort. Let the coward craven and men cautelous ask me such questions. Not you."

Dove toyed with the copper rings on her fingers. "Afaf is a spy for the faction," she said steadily. "For Ichenon Sonaraiju. I must have him executed."

"That you will, that you must, seeing that you are queen," Sirae said calmly. "You will do what you must and you will meet your fate with your head held high, the last of the daughters of the true Haiming blood." She smiled, almost tenderly. "The stories have it that Imiary VI died, begging like a dog for mercy. Dilsubai the Usurper died in battle, the last rays of the red sun burnishing her chain-mail till it shone like gold."

"And Dovasary the Promised One? What of her?" Dove asked, an ironic smile twisting her face.

"You will die defending the temples of your gods and the ashes of your fathers. They will blacken your name for centuries," Sirae said quietly. "Rittevon spawn. A luarin queen masquerading as a raka. But the truth will be told someday."

"Someday is no comfort," Dove said wryly. She stood up. "Thank you for coming - it's been very... interesting."

Sirae smiled and rose. "Interesting is seldom comforting to those who have far too many interesting things on your platter. We will never meet again." Suddenly, she took Dove's arm and raised it to her forehead, till the girl's fingers touched the onyx-stone. Dove yelped and drew back. There were scorch marks on the tips of her fingers. "I would say gods bless, Great Lady, but that term has no currency now," Sirae said softly. "The gods can be shaken from their thrones, you and I both know. So I will say this, may the end come quickly for you."

"Thank you," Dove said softly. "Thank you."

**000**

**The Imperial Palace of the Yamani Isles**

"And that is," Master Daitokuji concluded with a flourish, a note of triumph in his voice, "Women, by nature, are not fit to rule." He rolled up the map they'd been working on and took a dainty sip of his tea.

Reninkoji bowed his head. "It must be as you say, Master." He rose and paid the respectful obesiance of a student towards his master - a half-bow with his arms stiffly folded across his chest.

"Run along, lad," Master Daitokuji said indulgently. "And try not to spend too much time writing poetry to Lady Azunomiyu's eyebrows."

Reninkoji permitted himself a tiny smile before hastening away towards his next lesson - swordsmanship. But as he trode through the imperial hallways, nobles clearing his path and bowing when they saw him, his thoughts revolved not about his admittedly shoddy fencing skills or even Lady Azunomiyu. He was thinking about a word that had cropped up during their discussion about the situation in the Kyprish Isles.

Democracy.

**A/N: Having a 14-year-old as queen with absolute powers, even a really wise and intelligent one is hardly a safe bet. Just think about a teenager being the President of the USA, but one who's powers don't have any constitutional limits *shudders*. I was thinking about putting a sort of short, separate epilogue about Liankokami when she's on the verge of ascending the throne... would anyone be interested in reading it? **


	2. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**470 H.E.**

**The Grey Palace, Rajmuat**

She will have no mourning colors. Not even in the twilight of her reign, not even with the shadow of doom looming over her. Not for Queen Dovasary or those of her court who still linger with her the blacks and the greys, or even the purples signifying a dignified, majestic passage from the world of the living. It stands not well on her, the greybeards and the dowagers agree, 'tis a blight upon the Gods' faces, a liberty that they might be slow to pardon. Dovasary, blazing, even beautiful, in her defiance, laughs when she hears. "The Black God yields not those in his realm to his brothers," she says. "Men and gods, they are all the same - brothers hate to share."

And then, locking herself in her chamber, she calls for wine. The rebel army's ships shift and shimmer in the mages' scrying bowls - soon, spying glasses and not scrying bowls will be needed to see them, for they are so close to Rajmuat. "By the week's end, they will be swarming the gates of the Grey Palace, Your Majesty," her councillors tell her.

She sits in the high and august throne she had ascended, six short years before. The swirling reds and golds of her many-hued mantle blaze in the sunlight, while the ropes of rubies and onyx arrayed about her hair, her neck, her fingers glitter. "Why by the week's end?" she murmurs, tracing the pattern of the winged stallion on a copper ring. It is her signet ring, a symbol of who she is and the royal - nay _sacred_ - blood that she bears. "They will be here by the morrow." She slips off her ring and gazes at it for a moment, almost tenderly. _Almost_ for it has been many a day since she has known tenderness. Winnamine is dead. She rises and with her, her councillors rise as one. Still toying with the ring, she places it on the table before her.

"My Lady?" It is the seniormost of the greybeards, a tottering fool, late in his dotage, with hair quite silver. His eyes are wide with astonishment. "My Lady, I beg you to reconsider, this is beyond all manner of protocol..." Dove looks at him with pity - poor old man, what shall become of him? The rebels... why would the likes of them be acquainted with mercy? How indeed could they be expected to know?

"It is for him," she says, cutting sharply through the earl's speech, and they know what she means. She claps her hands. "Gentlemen, my regards. Tonight this palace of many revels shall know one like no other. When Barzun rose in flames, her king toyed with his roses. I have never had more than a passing interest in flowers, but I have made up my mind." They did not ask her what she had made up her mind up. "Count Tomang," she says sharply. Indomitable Lady Genore's son bows to her. "You shall host tonight's banquet and the subsequent entertainments, in my absence."

She sweeps out of the Council Chamber, for the last time. "Your Majesty?" it is Ferdy's soft voice, as tender as it used to be in days of yore when he would make love to her sister in the Balitang mansion.

She turns, just at the door. A stray sunbeam catches at her gauze veil and glints off the copper sunlets she wears and suddenly blazes into a aureole of sunlight around her face. _Kyprioth's doing, _she thinks, with a knowing smile. _Vain to the end aren't you, you old Trickster? _"Yes, My Lord?" she asks.

As one, the councillors, from handsome, young, battle-scarred Ferdy to the petted greybeards who'd seen _Oron _as a child, bow to her. Dove's breath catches in her throat and for a moment she cannot speak. Ferdy fancies he sees a tear glimmering in her eye. It is just a fancy, though. Dovasary Balitang is past mistress of her emotions. "I thank you," she finally whispers. Then she slips out of the door.

_"__In a dark time, the eye begins to see..."_

There is a new song doing the rounds in court, appropriate, some think, to the general melancholy. Dove is not one of them. Still, locked up in her chamber, having talked to her last visitor - Taybur - there is nothing she can do about it. She is done with the world of the living and she considers herself, in the last moments of her life, dead for all practical purposes. She is dressed like a young girl on the day of her betrothal and not as a queen. She is tired of being a queen. No, she prefers the role of a young virgin.

_"I meet my shadow in the deepening shade..."_

She rests her chin on her palm and thinks about how they will write about her. For they _will _write about her, truly the last daughter of the great Haiming dynasty. A footnote in history but her story, she knows, will fire people's imaginations for countless generations. So young, so very young, and beautiful - she isn't beautiful, it's all cosmetics, but they will think her beautiful because of her mother and Sarai -, the Virgin Queen... well she isn't.

_"Afaf..."_

_Clad in a sheet and nothing else, her hair tumbling down her bare shoulders, the dark circles under her eyes plainly visible she is still mistress of the situation. And he, as always, is the servant. He inclines his head lazily in her direction as she slips behind a delicately-carved golden screen. "Your Majesty?" he asks. "Or is it Dovasary now?"_

_She doesn't reply, but he hears her putting on her clothes. "Do you want my help?" he teases. _

_"No, thank you, I'll be quite fine," she says. There's a rigidity about her voice that surprises him, but then dismisses it. Some feminine shilly-shallying about losing her virginity... well it was high time for her. She'd be a wrinkled gooseberry before long and if she waited for one of her fine lords to bed her... well then she'd be a girl, not a woman, for a very long time. _

_She slips out of the screen, dressed in a white robe that flutters about her thin, small frame. Around one slim ankle a heavy copper anklet, patterned in gold with a kudarung, clings. White and copper - the imperial colors of the Copper Isles. The significance of it does not strike him at once. She looks steadily at him for a moment and opens her mouth before closing it abruptly. "Thank you, Afaf," she says finally. "I did not want to die a virgin. And I thought you'd think it a pity if you died before bedding me." Nodding at him, she vanishes._

She'd stood at the door, not able to move, as the royal guards had rushed in and well... killed him. A queen could not - _should _not - abide traitors. It was only when the chief guardsmen had come out, his sword tinged with warm blood, and bowed to her, signifying that the deed was done, that she'd fled. She'd flung herself on her bed, with the sheets drawn about her face - her body had still _smelt _like him, then - and cried and cried like a child.

"_What's madness but nobility of soul  
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!"_

"Kyprioth, my dear, where are you?" she asks softly, just as Aly used to. She wonders where Aly and Nawat and the triplets are... they'd fled at the opportune moment. Aly was not one to to get herself stuck in a Gotterdammerung, particularly not when her children were involved. The only answer she gets is the whistling wind. "You won't come, will you?" She throws up her arms, and the soft, petal-pink sleeves roll down. "This is what I get for putting my faith in a god! It would have been better for me to be a country noblewoman under Imajane's reign, to fawn and scheme and bend and bow. I would have been happy. Elsren and Dunevon might have been allowed to live if you hadn't whispered in Rubinyan's ears - yes I know you did! But no I thought I knew what was good and noble and I chose the path of righteousness and look what I got for my pains."

She thought he would answer, but she'd miscalculated. He was a god and how could a mere mortal ruffle his spirits or tempt him out of the dark grotto he'd chosen to secret himself in?

_"I know the purity of pure despair,  
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall."_

It is a terrible, terrible ballad the minstrels strummed their lyres to. If she were still queen - but no, she isn't, she's as good as dead now, for all practical purposes. Best not to dwell on foolish fancies which might tempt her to hope that... that, what? The rebel ships were at the dock of Rajmuat, she could almost sense it. There was no hope left and she would not nurture it.

_"That place among the rocks-is it a cave,  
Or winding path?"_

She closes her eyes and breaks the seal of the ring. There is a colorless pellet of poison within it - instantaneous death, the apothecary had assured her, with tears in his kind eyes. She puts it in her wine-glass and stirs it absently. The red wine clouds over for a moment and then it is clear again. She is standing on her private balcony and decides that it will not be fit for her to be found here. A queen should die with dignity, even if she has nothing else. She looks at the stars one last time, lingering over the familiar constellations. The Cat, the Wine-bowl, the Fawn, the Goddess - the Goddess, who has been her ill omen..._  
_

She sits down on her favorite armchair and draws up the footstool. It is a curiously carved affair, wrought of ivory, Ferdy's gift on her seventeenth birthday... The rebels will swarm the city by morn and by nightfall they will be in the Grey Palace doing what they do best - plundering and pillaging, burning and slaying, gorging and ravishing. They will break open the door to her chambers and they will find her, cold - perhaps rotting already. She arranges her hair so it falls gracefully over her shoulders, clad in petal-pink brocade. In the candlelight, her pearls shimmer. Perhaps they will defile her body - savages, the lot of them. Perhaps they will do the proper thing and have her buried in state. Or perhaps they'll throw her corpse away with the other corpses, flung in a common, hastily dug, anonymous grave.

She does not care anymore. Tilting her head back, she drinks the fiery wine in one gulp. She gives one last shudder and her head knocks against the back of her armchair. Her fingers writhe for a moment and then they lie, still, on the armrests.

_"Death of the self in a long, tearless night,  
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.  
__Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire."_

Below, the nobles applaud and the minstrels bow, having finished the song. Above, the wineglass slips from her grasp and falls to the floor.

The next day, when Ichenon Sonaraiju, already called the Lion Hearted, storms into the palace, with his army at his heels, he finds the late queen's signet ring waiting for him. He flings it to the floor. "There," he roars, his voice ringing in the great chamber as the crowd falls silent, "will be no kings hereafter!" And that night, the Grey Palace truly knows a revel like none other.

**000**

**482 H.E. **

**The Royal Palace, Corus**

Liankokami of Conte, Crown (and only) Princess of Tortall, gazes at the woodcut illustration of Queen Dovasary thoughtfully. "Master Volney Rain made a portrait of her, in her last moments, didn't he, mother?" she asks thoughtfully. "Is it in the gallery here?"

"No, it was privately acquired by an anonymous family. Not currently in residence in Tortall, I believe. There was a great deal of interest in that particular piece at the time - some called it Rain's masterpiece." Queen Shinkokami looks up from the flowers she's been arranging and smiles at her daughter. "Why so interested in her?" Her fingers toy with the stem of a lily but she says cautiously, "It is not well, Lia, to dwell on things that are long past."

"But she's not long past!" Lia protests.

Shinko ignores her. "Her dynasty and all that she stood for, is long past. For all practical purposes. Why the sudden interest in her?"

Lia says nothing but Shinko is shrewd enough to understand. "Dovasary Balitang did not fall because the gods had turned their faces from her, nor because she was a woman. For the first, why look at your grandfather - where there ever odds as high, times as inauspicious, as were stacked against King Jonathan when he ascended the throne? For the second, look at Queen Anj'la of Maren. Look - I fear you will have to do more than look for there's a great deal about her that you must study in your lessons - and learn."

Lia bites her lip thoughtfully. "Then...?"

"Then why?" Shinkokami looks at her. "She was a bad queen, quite simply. Unfitted to rule. Nothing wrong with her blood or her gods."

"Oh?" Lia looks shell-shocked, the simplicity of the idea causing her to gape.

"Close your mouth, it looks most unbecoming," Shinko tells her daughter absently. Then she smiles. "Yes, dear. Oh."

"Oh," Lia says, grinning. Humming a popular new tune under her breath, she turns once again to her history book and flips the page. There is a new chapter to be learned today.

**A/N: And that puts an end to that. **


End file.
